Against the Wind
by Chocolate Usagi
Summary: There was a sharp intake of breath on the line and then: "'M here." His voice was all wrong. It trembled, almost like he was shivering, and it sounded strained, like a thin piece of wire that had been pulled taut. A heavy silence settled inside the SUV. They knew. They were too late.
1. Chapter 1

Okay, I wrote a thing. This is set in season five, somewhere between 5.02 "Nameless, Faceless" and 5.09 "100." It's a little brutal, I guess. I hope you like it.

[…]

"FBI! Hands in the air!"

"FBI! FBI, don't move!

"Down! Down on the ground!"

"BPD! Get down!"

The door splintered away beneath Morgan's boot and the BAU and BPD officers charged the inside of the small suburban home. After searching thoroughly for several tense minutes, confused calls of, "Clear!" rang out.

Hotch approached the final closed door - a closet in the master bedroom. His glock drawn, he ripped the slatted wooden door open to reveal nothing.

Well, almost nothing.

Sitting propped up in a chair was a Victorian-style hand-painted doll - the same kind left behind with each of the fourteen victims at the crime scenes, each one specially crafted to look like the woman killed. Only there was something different about this doll. The normally ornately painted face looked incomplete; its lips were pale and its cheeks left un-rosy, and its eyes were plain and tired-looking. It gave the doll an almost sickly appearance. In addition, instead of being dressed in a ruffled period-piece dress like the others, this doll had been stuffed into clothing that had apparently been taken off a boys' doll - khaki pants, a gray button-up, and a purple vest. And lastly the wig that had been sewn carefully to its scalp had been shorn messily into a curled brunet mass that reached its chin. Pinned to the doll's vest was a note - a single sentence on a ripped piece of paper.

"Missing something?"

He bent down to pick up the doll. There was no mistaking it. The breath caught in Hotch's lungs and suddenly everything around him got very quiet. The only sound was the rushing of blood in his ears and the rapid pounding of his own heartbeat.

"Reid," he choked out.

"What?" Emily asked from behind him. Hotch turned to face her. She nearly flinched at the pale, drawn expression on her boss's face.

"We have to get back to the station. He's going for Reid." The last of his words were thrown over his shoulder as he darted past his stunned subordinate. "Morgan, call Reid! We don't have much time!"

"Come again, Hotch? He's going after _Reid?_" Morgan questioned in disbelief, his voice crackling over the earpiece, already running back around to the SUVs at the front of the house.

"He left a doll," Hotch growled in response. He was just sliding into the driver's side when the rest of his team emerged from the empty house. Rossi jumped in the front passenger seat and Emily and Morgan in the back. They barely had time to pull their doors shut before Hotch peeled away from the curb, tires squealing and siren blaring.

"Why would he target Reid?" Prentiss asked, her eyes darting nervously between her teammates. "He doesn't fit his victimology."

"He's not picking up," Morgan muttered, phone pressed against his ear, panic seeping into his voice, saturating each syllable.

The hard pit forming in Hotch's stomach twisted and dropped. "Damn it. Damn it!"

"Oh wait - he's calling me," said Morgan, looking down at his cell phone. The relief was evident on his face.

"Or someone else is using his phone," Rossi grunted, twisting in his seat to face the two in the back. His forehead was damp with sweat and his eyes seemed almost too wide.

Morgan kept his gaze level with Rossi's as he accepted the call and pressed the speaker button. "Reid."

There was a beat. Then another.

"Reid-?" Morgan spluttered out worriedly.

There was a sharp intake of breath on the line and then: "'M here."

His voice was all wrong. It trembled, almost like he was shivering, and it sounded strained, like a thin piece of wire that had been pulled taut.

A heavy silence settled inside the SUV. They _knew._ They were too late.

Hotch shook his head, furiously biting back the tears in his eyes. His fists tightened on the steering wheel in a tremulous white-knuckled grip as flashes of autopsy photos flickered in his mind, of what this man did to his victims. The rage boiled away and left only a cold, urgent panic in its place. "Reid, we're on our way," he said softly, suddenly breathless. "Just hold on, we're almost there."

"Oh, I think it's too late for that, Agent Hotchner," a male voice panted into the phone. It was higher-pitched than expected and Hotch fought down the niggling voice in his head that sounded surprisingly like Jason Gideon helpfully reminding him that the man was a sexual sadist and was likely getting aroused by his own actions.

"Ayden Brandt." Hotch ground the name out, spitting it from his mouth like poison. He risked a glance at Rossi and saw the older agent was already on the phone with 911.

"I mean, you really shouldn't make a promise you can't keep, ya know?" Brandt crooned, continuing on as if Hotch hadn't spoken at all. "Here's what I don't understand: why would you all leave poor, gimpy little Spencer here all by himself? He's like a sitting duck. All I had to do was sneak up behind him, and then one well-aimed blow to the knee and - WHAMMO!" Brandt barked out a harsh laugh. "He dropped like a sack of potatoes. And the rest, Agents, was easy. As. Pie."

"You son of a bitch," Morgan snarled, his face contorted with pure rage. "If you touch him - if you even _think_ about touching him - I swear to god I'll rip you apart limb from limb."

"Well. That's awfully barbaric, wouldn't you say, Agent Morgan?" Brandt replied, his voice light with giddiness. "Especially since I've stabbed your little friend - oh, how many times was it? …Come on, Spencerrr, I know you were keeping count."

A thready squeak of a voice: "Fourteen."

"Four_teen!_" Brandt shouted. "Oh MAN, that's good! Although, to be technical, one of those wasn't a stab, was it, Spence? For those of you playing at home, I cut off one of his cute little fingers."

"Oh my god," Emily choked out, covering her mouth with one hand. She looked deathly pale, like she'd be sick at any moment.

"Oh, don't be so dramatic, Agent Prentiss," chided Brandt mockingly. "It was just the left pinky. He'd do fine without it. Although, Spencer, if you're so eager to have fourteen, I could give you another. But you have to say pleeeeaase…"

There was a brief pause, then a strangled, high-pitched whine reverberated from the phone.

"There we are. Fourteen pretty little stabbity-stabs," Brandt sang. "Not to mention the number I did on his knee. Hey. Hey, guys. You wanna know what I did to his knee? Huh? Do ya, do ya, do ya? Hey, Spencer, you wanna tell them? No - no, I wanna tell them. Okay, you guys ready?" He paused, almost as if he actually was waiting for a response. Then in a whisper, like he was sharing some schoolyard secret: "I dissected it."

Morgan cursed low in his throat. The tears that glistened in Prentiss's eyes finally rolled down her cheeks.

"I couldn't help myself!" Brandt defended emphatically. "It was such a pretty scar. So I thought, why the hell not help myself? And I carved into that pathetic little Frankenknee like it was a Thanksgiving turkey. Hey, what caliber bullet was that anyway? It sure did some damage. I'm talkin' fucked all over the place. Whatever, it all looks like lasagna to me. I tried to pull the pins out, but they were determined to stay in there. I mean, they were _not_ coming out!"

"Dave-"

"Paramedics are on their way, Aaron," Rossi replied immediately. "But they have to be cleared before they can go into the station."

"My, my. _Fourteen._ But that _is_ a lot, isn't it? How many times did George Foyet stab you, Agent Hotchner?" asked Brandt tauntingly.

Still so very fresh in his mind, Hotch remembered exactly how many times and precisely where Foyet stabbed him. And even if he couldn't, he'd have the scars for life. But one thing he would never forget - one thing he could still recall with perfect clarity - was how badly it hurt each time.

"Nine," Hotch said, the word thick in his throat.

Brandt whistled appreciatively. "Nine, oh, good for you. _Nine._ But I have to say - the kid's got you beat. Although - and you're gonna hate me for this, Spence - I'd really like to make it a good, round fifteen. I've always been fond of odd numbers."

This time there was only a low, broken groan in return from Reid.

"I only have two regrets," lamented Brandt in a campy tone. "I'd love to see the light leave those pretty brown eyes… And, of course, I'd love to see all your faces when you run in here only to find a still warm corpse. How delightful!"

"We're close," Hotch assured. "We're closer than you think, Brandt. We'll catch you. We'll get there in time, okay, Reid?"

Brandt hummed, low in the back of his throat. "I dunno, boss man. He's lost a _lot_ of blood. You know, I honestly don't know why you don't wear red more often, Spencer. I've been watching you for the eight days you've been in Blythewood and I haven't seen you wear it once! It really is your color, red. Very sexy…"

The team could hear Reid gasp, then sputter a weak, "_Don't…_"

"You son of a bitch!" Morgan roared. "I'll fuckin' kill you!"

"Oh, come on, Morgan!" Brandt purred excitedly. "Don't tell me you of all people haven't had a little taste of this! He's like the poster child for twinks. And don't get me started on those 'fuck me' lips."

"I fucking swear-"

"Who'da guessed that under all those layers nerdy little Dr. Reid would actually be a hottie with a body? Tell me, sweetheart - do you _really _wanna die a virgin?"

"Don't kid yourself, Ayden," Hotch interrupted, his voice now an eerie calm. "We both know you're impotent. That's why you choose to stab your victims instead of raping them. You wouldn't even be able to get it up without the torture."

"Hotch-" Rossi muttered in a warning tone. Behind them Prentiss choked back a sob.

For the first time in the conversation Brandt's voice grew dark, a husky warning. "I guess it's lucky for me then, Agent Hotchner, that I believe this qualifies as torture."

There was a sickening squelch, then a distant grunt of pain from Reid.

"Aaaaahhh… I've got my whole hand in his gut… That is _sooo pretty…_" Brandt said, his voice practically oozing through the phone. Then he chirped: "Well! I guess I'd better get going. As much as I'd love to hang around with my new playmate - and I really would - I should get a move on. Oh, and don't worry, Agents. Little Spence won't have to suffer long. He's going quick now. You probably won't make it in time, so no sense in rushing. Stop by the drive-thru, pick yourselves up some Happy Meals. Besides, I'd love it if mine was the last face he sees. But I'll be merciful - I'll leave the phone on so you can at least listen to him die. Bye-bye for now, BAU!"

The phone clattered for a brief second as Brandt set it on the ground, and then the only sound coming from it was a slow, rattled breathing. It was the sound of a person dying.

For a long moment no one in the SUV could bring themselves to say a word. Then, quietly, almost a mewl, Reid whispered, "Morgan?"

Morgan could only clench his jaw in response and hang his head. He tried to speak but words were suddenly beyond him. He swallowed, his throat impossibly dry, and cleared his throat. "Yeah, kid. I'm right here."

Reid gave something of a puff of relief. "'Mm'kay. I jsss… Keep talkin'a me. I can't… 'M having trouble…thinking."

Morgan nodded despite knowing Reid couldn't see him. "Yeah. Yeah, you got it Reid. What - what do you wanna talk about?"

Silence met him on the other line. Then Reid's breathing hitched and he gave a gurgled yelp of pain.

"Reid… Come on now, Pretty Boy. You gotta stay with me here."

"We're nearly there…!" Hotch chimed desperately from the front seat.

Reid coughed lightly, and it was a thick, wet sound that made Rossi cringe and turn his head toward the window.

"'M cold," Reid admitted. "Can't…can't feel my…hands. I lost…" Another mangled breath. "Lost a lotta blood." His voice sounded lighter now, almost like he was in awe.

"How much blood, Reid?" Morgan demanded. "Hey, kid - how much blood's in a human body? Come on, Reid, how much blood." He was grasping at straws now and he knew it. But Morgan was determined to get Reid's foggy mind to focus on something. They were so close. He could see the building.

"I, uhhhh…" Reid mumbled tiredly. "Mmm…can't r'member," he whined, exhausted.

"Come on, kid. You gotta think."

"Dunn't hurt so much anymore. It's - ahh, my body's in shock, Morg'nnn…" As he said his name, his voice trailed off into an almost contented sigh.

"Reid. …Reid…!" There was no response, only weak, labored, struggled breathing.

Hotch hopped the vehicle up onto the sidewalk and slammed it into park. The team flew from the SUV, leaving the doors wide open. He didn't pause in his stride as he called out to Emily. "Prentiss, stay out here! Coordinate with the LEOs. I want this place canvassed for Brandt - he couldn't have gotten far."

"Yes, sir," Emily snapped back, silently relieved she wouldn't have to go in there and actually see Reid like that. She didn't think she could do it. She just wasn't strong enough and she felt disgusted at herself for it.

"And call JJ, pull her from the coroner's office. She's needed here. I want that bastard's face everywhere!"

Emily watched her team run up the steps to the Blythewood Police Department, her brown eyes wide and glistening with fresh tears. "Please, God," she prayed silently. "Just - please…"

"Reid, you listen to me," Morgan panted as the team sprinted toward the door. He drew his gun as Hotch breached the entrance and Rossi brought up the rear. "Reid, we're here, okay? So you just - you just hold on. We're gonna get you."

There was a noise on the line that sounded almost like a sob. "I know," Reid said, and Morgan could swear he'd never heard the kid sound so fucking resigned in all his life. "I know," he repeated, and his voice sounded more distant this time. "Thanks."

The agents raced down the hall to the conference room the BAU had commandeered for the last week. Rossi gripped the handle, sparing a split-second to glance up at Hotch and Morgan before flinging it open. Morgan reluctantly pocketed his cell phone to draw his gun up, but he was careful to leave the call open.

Brandt's claim of Reid not putting up a fight was apparently false; the room was a disaster. The whiteboard was overturned and papers and files were strewn about on the floor near the table. A swivel chair laid on its side, and beside it was a broken porcelain mug surrounded by a puddle of coffee - Reid's crutches, one of which was snapped nearly in half.

And then he saw him.

Suddenly all the prior urgency, all the alarm evaporated into thin air and was replaced with a clear, stagnant stillness. There he was. On the ground in a corner of the room near the window was Reid. He was impossibly still and his brown eyes were half-open staring at the ceiling above him.

Morgan shook the sudden memory from his mind, the conversation Garcia had recounted between her and Reid when Hotch first came back to work: _"I_'_ve been thinking about it - the whole time I've known Hotch, I don't think I've ever seen him blink." "I know, it's weird." "It's classic alpha male behavior." "Do you think he stared down Foyet?" "Maybe. Could be what saved his life." "Do you think he stared the whole time - like, with each stab?" "I have no idea." "Is he okay?" "I wouldn't be. But - I'm a blinker."_

Morgan fought back the sick feeling of irony as he moved slowly toward his still body, toward those listless eyes. He choked back the nausea, the screaming pain in his chest. When he reached him, Morgan's knees gave way under his weight and he collapsed in on himself, staring down at his friend.

He couldn't look too long at his body; it was gruesome. His left knee was a mangled mess, all cleaved open, the prosthetic kneecap practically torn away. His body was littered with puncture wounds, concentrated mainly in his abdomen. The blood blossomed out away from his body, staining the stark white button-up, the powder blue cardigan, the knees of Morgan's pants.

He drew his eyes up to his face. He didn't look in pain, but he didn't quite look peaceful either. It was simply as if a calm had taken over. A fine sheen of sweat was glistening on Reid's face and neck. His usually pale skin was nearly translucent from blood loss. His brown eyes which were normally so large and expressive, conveying every emotion he hid and freely exclaiming every word he somehow couldn't rapid-fire out of his mouth - those same eyes were now dull, unfocused slats. The rings under his eyes had always been there but they were darker now, more prevalent. When was the last time the kid had slept? It suddenly and absurdly occurred to Morgan that Reid hadn't stopped working during the entire case. While the rest of the team worked in shifts, going back to the hotel to sleep for a few hours at a time, Reid instead opted to run on cop shop coffee and fifteen minute power naps at the station. He'd worked so hard to catch this man, harder than any of them - and for what?

Morgan's vision blurred violently and he thought he might be passing out; he realized belatedly that at some point he'd begun crying, already mourning his friend's death. He felt the sudden need to gather the thin young man in his arms, provide him some kind of comfort even if he could no longer feel it. Reid had to know that Morgan hadn't lied to him; they made it. They had him. They had him and it was over.

The world around him was muted as he drew his arms around Reid, like everything was underwater. He thought he heard someone calling his name from the surface but he couldn't be bothered to pay them any attention. His entire world narrowed down to the butchered young man before him.

It was only when firm hands pulled him back in a steely grip that time seemed to catch up to his movements. "Morgan, stop! Morgan, listen to me, you can't move him!" The voice was familiar, but it contained a roughness that made it sound foreign, distorted.

Morgan whirled around to face Hotch behind him. His supervisor's face somehow still held that calm neutrality, but there was something else there just beneath the surface clawing to get out. Morgan had neither the capacity nor the energy to identify it.

It was relief.

"Morgan, you can't move him," repeated Hotch patiently. "He's still alive."

_That _Morgan understood. He turned back to Reid. His eyes were still eased open, but instead of staring up at the ceiling, they were concentrated on his face. Morgan felt a pressure on his knee and looked down to see Reid's hand squeezing it weakly. He did it. He held on for him.

Rossi ushered the paramedics into the room and then everything sped up into a dizzying blur. He was alive. He held on and he was alive.

[…]

So there's chapter one for you. Loved it? Hated it? Needed more explosions? Let me know, friends. Chapter two will be coming at your beautiful faces shortly!

Also, don't tell the Flashpoint fandom I'm hiding out in here. I sort of lost inspiration for my story two years ago. I've been threatened with bodily harm. I fear for my safety.


	2. Chapter 2

Hey. You right there. You guys are awesome. Seriously, your reviews made me squeal with childlike delight.

After I posted chapter one I went back and reread it and I found a TON of tiny little errors, so those should all be fixed now. Please accept this humble chapter two as my apology.

If I titled my chapters, this one would be called "There Are No Words in the English Language to Describe Derek Morgan's Eyebrows."

[…]

"The man we are looking for is Ayden Brandt, thirty-nine years old." JJ's voice was ice - cold and solid, yet extremely fragile, ready to shatter under her own feet at any second. She stood delivering the press conference before cameras, reporters, and the Blythewood law enforcement outside the BPD's front steps, a large poster board with Brandt's picture beside her. "Brandt is six feet three inches tall and weighs two hundred nine pounds. He has dark brown hair and blue eyes. We're asking you to circulate this photo as much as possible. Also, note that Brandt may be sporting defensive wounds, as there was a significant struggle at the latest crime scene. He uses a blitz attack to take his victims by surprise, but his latest is the first to put up a fight. Look for scratch marks or bruises on his face and neck and on his forearms. Ayden Brandt is considered armed and extremely dangerous. We are advising that if you see him, do not approach him. Call 911 immediately. His latest victim was an armed FBI agent, and he was still able to overpower him, so please use extreme caution. Do not travel alone, and make sure someone knows where you are at all times. Brandt is a sexually driven psychopath and he's killed fourteen women already. What this means is that he derives sexual pleasure from the act of stabbing his victims, but they are not sexually assaulted in the traditional sense. He is capable of inflicting extreme torture without showing disgust or remorse for his actions. Brandt's weapon of choice is a serrated hunting knife, but we have reason to believe he's also carrying a Smith & Wesson revolver. However, just because he prefers the knife doesn't mean he won't use a gun if he feels cornered."

"Agent Jareau?" a reporter called out from the crowd. "You said fourteen women have been killed. We have the names of the fourteen victims - does this mean the latest victim, the FBI agent, survived?"

JJ hesitated before responding. She quickly scanned the crowd and her eyes met Hotch's at the edge of the police barricade. He gave her a small nod of approval.

JJ blinked back her emotions several times and cleared her throat. "Yes. The FBI agent - whose identity we are _not_ releasing at the time - is in critical condition at Providence Hospital in nearby Columbia. He pulled through surgery and was moved to a private room in intensive care early this morning. I'll now take any other questions."

As JJ was bombarded with a flood of questions from the eager reporters, Hotch stepped away to check his vibrating phone. He cupped one hand around his ear and answered the call. "Prentiss."

"Hotch, Forensics just finished up inside. There's no sign of Reid's gun anywhere," the female agent reported on the other end.

Hotch suppressed a sigh, instead opting to pinch the bridge of his nose with his forefinger and thumb. It wouldn't help to stave off the headache, he knew; the only cure was sleep, but he'd be damned if he'd be getting any until Brandt was caught - or dead. "Then our theory that Brandt took it with him when he fled is correct."

"Looks that way."

"Okay, JJ's just finishing up the press conference. Can you call Garcia, see if she was able to lift anything from the security tapes in front of the station. Her flight came in almost two hours ago, that should've given her plenty of time."

"Sure thing, Hotch. Is she at the hospital?"

"With Rossi. He just relieved Morgan. If I hadn't practically ordered him to go get some food he'd have stayed there all day."

"Why does that not surprise me?" Prentiss asked, the lilt of a smile audible in her voice.

"After you do that, I want you to go over calls from the tip line. Let me know if you flag anything. I'll have JJ join you as soon as she can."

"Okay. And Hotch-?"

"Yes."

"Take your own advice and catch a break, okay? You sound like shit."

Hotch wanted to smile at the jabbing affection from his subordinate, at the playful jeer, but he couldn't. The thought of relaxing at a time like this only made his grimace deepen. "I can once we catch Brandt." With that, he ended the call.

Hotch turned to see JJ striding toward him. The usually composed young woman looked almost dowdy from spending the night awake in the hospital. Her plain white button-up was wrinkled and she wore brown shoes with black slacks - a fashion faux pas she'd more than once warned Reid against.

"I had to step away," Hotch began as he pocketed his cell phone. "How'd it go?"

JJ sighed and ran a shaking hand through her hair. "I feel like I'm going to throw up," she replied, all poise and professionalism she had previously in front of the cameras gone. "Hotch…it just doesn't feel right."

"What's wrong?" Hotch asked, his brow furrowed in an austere mixture of confusion and concern.

"I - all of this. We just gave away the one card in our hand up to Brandt. It's obvious he wasn't expecting Reid to live. Shouldn't we keep his survival a secret? At least until he's well enough to leave the hospital and be moved to a safe house?"

"Brandt is a need-based killer, but he's result driven. Fifteen victims, each stabbed fifteen times? That's a definite ritual, one he'll need to complete."

"Exactly," JJ shot back, her voice going up in pitch with anxiety. "So why are we painting a target on our teammate's back?"

"JJ, right now the safest place for Reid is in that hospital under twenty-four hour surveillance and protection. What we need right now is to do our jobs, and that means drawing Brandt out of hiding. Once he hears that his ritual is incomplete and Reid is still alive, he'll have no choice but to finish it. He'll be compelled to. And that's where we'll catch him. He'll make a mistake and we'll get him."

"You seem awfully sure."

"I am sure," replied Hotch with confident finality.

JJ looked up at her unit chief with hard, glinting eyes. "Sure enough to bet Reid's life, apparently."

[…]

"I looked it up. Ayden - it's, um, Gaelic. And it means 'little fire.' And Brandt is English. It means 'sword,' Rossi. So the guy's name literally means 'little fiery sword.' How messed up is that? I mean, it's like his parents _knew._"

"Garcia, I love you. But I'm going to be out here for the next four and a half hours. Do not make me gag you."

Garcia groaned loudly, and a nurse at the nearby station hushed her. "Sorry - I'm sorry! I just can't…sit out here and do nothing. My fingers - they itch, they _literally itch_ for work! Anything to help our little genius." She twisted in her chair to look at the closed hospital room door between herself and Rossi.

"What about the security footage job Prentiss called you about?"

"_Please,_ don't insult me. I had that done in like, five minutes, easy-peasy."

"And?" Rossi inquired, his interest piqued for the first time in the mostly one-sided conversation.

"Aaaand," Garcia began dramatically, "nothing. Brandt turned the cameras away before he entered the police station, the sneaky badger. There's no way to tell how he got away so quickly and - UGH, I just wanna see my Junior G-Man!" By the end of it she was practically vibrating in her seat.

"Listen, Garcia, Reid doesn't need someone to hold his hand right now. What he needs is rest. And _quiet-_" Punctuated by a finger to his lips. "Support. We've got the kid covered, okay? Round the clock armed BAU bodyguards, female doctors and nurses only-"

"What, you think Brandt would disguise himself to try and sneak into the hospital?"

Rossi shrugged one shoulder. "It's a possibility we need to consider. After JJ's press conference, Brandt's gonna be pretty desperate to finish what he started."

"Oh god…" Garcia gasped, brown eyes widening almost comically.

"Which is why I'm here," Rossi placated calmly. Then, patting his holster, he added, "With my little friend." He smirked as Garcia seemed to calm down, refocusing on her knitting. The smile fell from his face as Rossi turned away, his expression turning dark. "We weren't there for Reid before," he grumbled in a hushed tone under his breath. "I'll be damned if I'm leaving him now."

The two sat in silence for a few more minutes before strong, purposed footsteps drew their attention. Walking toward Reid's hospital room was a weary-eyed, stone-faced Derek Morgan. He held a Styrofoam coffee cup in each hand and a third balanced carefully between, and he extended one each to Garcia and Rossi as he came to a stop in front of them.

"My hero," Rossi murmured drolly, accepting the proffered coffee.

"Hey, you gotta keep awake somehow," Morgan retorted with an easy grin. He turned his attention to Garcia. "Well, look who just made South Carolina shine a little brighter. How ya doin', Baby Girl?"

Garcia stood up and wrapped her arms around Morgan's neck, hugging him tightly. "When JJ called me and told me what happened she didn't have a lot of details," she said, her words coming out muffled in the collar of Morgan's coat. She pulled away slightly so she could look him in the eye. "How is he? And don't pull your punches, Derek. Only speak the truth, my beautiful mandolin."

Morgan put his hands on Garcia's hips to pull her away a bit more before shaking his head. "I don't know. Hotch is the only one who's been able to go in and see him yet." He silenced Garcia's petulant whine with a cupped hand to her cheek. "I know, sweetness, I wanna go in there just as badly as you do. But medical proxies, blah-blah, power of attorney, blah-blah. You know."

"But you're the FBI. Can't you just kick the door down?" puffed Garcia haughtily, crossing her arms over her chest. Morgan couldn't help but chuckle lightly; she looked more like an impudent child than a government analyst.

"I thought Hotch told you to take a break," Rossi broke in with a scolding tone, leaning forward in his chair to see Morgan around Garcia's pouting form.

"Yeah, I did," Morgan countered as if he was stating the obvious, gesturing to the cup in his hand. "I went to the cafeteria, got some coffee."

"I don't think that's what he meant."

"Well what do you want me to do, man? Go back to the hotel and have a drink by the pool? No, I'm here, or I'm at the station working the case," Morgan spouted, agitated. The rings under his eyes seemed to stand out suddenly to Rossi. Frown lines appeared where previously there had been none. Morgan didn't look so much like the young man he used to be when Rossi first joined the team.

He'd only left the hospital once since Reid had been rushed in, and that was to run back to the hotel to shower the blood off his skin and change his ruined clothes, and even then he only left after the surgical team had stabilized Reid. When he came back, Morgan demanded to be given the first shift of guard duty, possibly hoping to glean some scrap of information on his teammate's condition from the passing staffer.

"What's got you so worried?" Garcia asked in a shaky voice. The tears were back, threatening once again to spill over her eyes. "When I was shot-" She broke off, swallowed thickly, tried again. "When I was shot two years ago you were concerned - you were _worried_ - but you weren't scared."

"Man. Of course I was-"

"Not like this." Garcia met Morgan's stare head-on, despite how difficult it was for her to see her own personal hero beginning to crumble away at his foundation. "What do you know?"

Morgan's face screwed up, his eyebrows drawing together fretfully. "I don't _know_ anything, I just - look. Reid made it through surgery despite the odds. That's the most amazing thing. So no matter what happens after this, at least he's alive. I mean, Hotch was stabbed nine times and he _barely_ pulled through. I didn't think there was any way Reid would."

"He's stronger than we all give him credit for," Rossi pointed out in a subdued tone.

"Yeah," Morgan agreed, nodding. "Yeah, I know. But here's the thing: he survived - so now what?"

"What do you mean, 'now what?' Now he gets better. We make him better. We help him," Garcia gushed emphatically, her voice coming dangerously close to breaking.

"Oh, you mean like how we helped him so much after Georgia? Penelope, this isn't something we can just fix. At the end of it all he's not gonna be okay just because we want him to be. It doesn't work like that. I'm sorry, I wish it did, but…"

When Morgan didn't continue Garcia nearly exploded in exasperation. "God, Morgan, just say what you're thinking!"

Derek worried his bottom lip for a second before he waved his hand helplessly in front of himself. "What's he gonna be like after this? Mentally - _physically?_ I mean… His knee was messed up before, but Brandt - he pulled the kneecap _out._ As in - _removed it entirely_ and _set it off to the side._ Honestly, I don't see any way they were able to save that leg."

That thought pushed Garcia over the edge. She burst out with an ugly sob and the tears ran down her face leaving tracks down her plump cheeks. Just the idea - the mere suggestion - that Reid would survive all this, go through everything he'd had to go through, to be left handicapped - it was terrifying.

"Are you-? Do you think he'll leave? Would he even be able to come back? Would they _let_ him come back?" Garcia sputtered through her tears.

"Would he want to?" Morgan responded, his voice deep and desolate. "First Hankel, now this… I'd understand if he didn't."

"Reid's the most brilliant young man I've ever met. He'd have lots of offers _if_ he decided to step away from the BAU. He'll be okay." Even as the words left his lips, Rossi knew they weren't right; they tasted funny on his tongue, a bitter twang.

"No. He won't."

The three agents turned to face JJ standing behind them. She was standing tall, keeping her own tears at bay - but her fists were at her sides, clenched so tightly that they were visibly shaking.

"This team is Spencer's family," she continued. "It's everything to him. If he was told he couldn't do his job…I think it would break him." She cleared her throat, then turned to Morgan. "I'm here to take you back to the station. Hotch wants you to profile the crime scene with him."

Morgan's face turned ashen and his expression fell. This was clearly a task he was dreading.

[…]

Morgan walked into the conference room to find his unit chief already standing near the corner where they'd found Reid the night before. He was staring down intently at the large pool of dried blood, his fingers pressed to his mouth, his brows drawn together.

"Hotch," Morgan called softly, not wanting to encroach on such a personal moment.

Hotch twitched almost imperceptively before turning around. "Any news?"

"No, nothing. It's like the doctors at that place are all under a gag order," Morgan mumbled, running a hand over his head. "So what are we looking for exactly?"

"Prentiss gave me the report from Forensics," Hotch began as he moved over toward his subordinate. "He left his prints all over the place. He wasn't careful at all like with - like at the other crime scenes."

"Well, we had his identity by then. And he made the phone call," Morgan supplied. "There was no need to conceal himself." Hotch nodded, his eyes hard and looking off to the side. Morgan could practically see the gears whirring in his head. "Hotch, we only found this guy because he let us. He _wanted_ us to."

"This was his endgame," Hotch continued, picking up on Morgan's train of thought. He looked up and met Derek's eyes.

"You think he started out stabbing and killing women so he could get the BAU called to Podunk, South Carolina so that he could attempt to murder Reid?" Morgan practically scoffed.

"No, not specifically, but think about it - he kills eleven women and still doesn't get the recognition he thinks he deserves."

Morgan nodded along slowly. "Right. The mayor kept the details about the murders out of the news until we were called in."

"And then he kills three more right under the noses of the FBI, and he picks up the pace between kills. But he wasn't spiraling and he wasn't on a spree - he still cleaned up after himself and took time with each of his victims to torture them before he killed them. He still took the time to make the dolls. What does _that_ tell us?" prompted Hotch.

"That he's highly organized, but Hotch - we know that. It was part of the profile from the beginning. The clean kill sites alone told us that."

Hotch crossed his arms and began moving away from Morgan, pacing across the room. "And then the fifteenth victim - the end of his ritual - breaks his established pattern completely." Suddenly he realized something. "Why didn't he go after JJ? She's a better fit to his victimology. She's a female, blonde and petite like the other victims. Why choose Reid?"

"Well," Morgan began, considering. "He was an easier target. If Brandt really had been watching the team since we arrived in Blythewood like he said, he definitely would've known that Reid was on crutches. He'd have seen he was carrying a gun, but as familiar as he is with a blitz attack he'd probably know that he could easily have overpowered him. Plus, even though JJ was separated from the rest of the team during the raid, she wasn't alone like Reid was. Considering how small the department is, he'd have known the sheriff would've sent every available officer with us, leaving Reid on his own at the station."

"No," Hotch said simply, leaving absolutely no room for argument. "It's more than that. He picked Reid specifically - out of all of us." Tired brown eyes drifted over to the blood that still stained the floor. "We just need to find out why."

"Why didn't he use his gun?" Morgan asked abruptly. He looked up, catching his unit chief's stern gaze. "I get attacked from behind, I go down. My first instinct is to draw my gun." To demonstrate his point, he knelt down on his right knee and pantomimed reaching for his weapon, but instead of going for his own holster at his hip, Morgan slid his hand down to the front of his thigh where Reid kept his. "Appendix carry actually benefits the situation. Easier access in this position."

"Forensics didn't find any shell casings or bullet holes," Hotch stated, bewilderment written across his face.

"Yeah, but look at this place." Morgan, still down on one knee, gestured around at the destroyed conference room. "Reid didn't go down easy. He fought Brandt with everything he could. He sure as hell would've tried to use his gun before trying to physically fight off a six foot tall, two hundred pound man."

"You're right," Hotch concurred. "He's used his gun in self-defense before. This would have been no different."

Morgan thought for a moment, then positioned himself down on the ground on his back. He extended his left arm, crooked at the elbow, as if fending off some unseen assailant, and his right hand came to rest once again at his imaginary appendix holster. He grimaced and shook his head. "No. No way. Even if Brandt _had_ gotten Reid down that quickly, he'd still have access to his gun." He sat up, knees bent and elbows resting on top, and looked questioningly at his boss, demanding an answer Hotch couldn't give.

Why didn't he use it?

[…]

Yeah, don't expect anything too elaborate with the profiling. They don't teach that to theatre majors. Anyway, I really hope you guys liked it! The next chapter will be out soon, and things will begin to pick up again.


	3. Chapter 3

I'm so excited about this story, you guys. I feel like we understand each other. We all just want to see Reid being tortured and the team in turmoil. We should seek help.

Shout-out to Annber03 for calling the "have a drink by the pool" line! I was really hoping someone would catch that. Also, your multi-chapter reviews are rocking my socks. ALL of your reviews are. Keep 'em coming. As Miss Penny Garcia would say, my ears are hungry and your words are like food to them.

If I titled my chapters, this one would be called "I Have a Deep Personal Connection to Emily Prentiss's Internal Monologue."

[…]

Prentiss sat outside of Reid's hospital room hunched over in her seat, one foot tapping out a metronome, picking mercilessly at her fingernails.

She'd relieved JJ several hours ago, who had relieved Rossi, and Hotch was due at any minute to relieve her. It'd been hell trying to get Garcia to take a break; she'd already knitted two scarves and half a sweater in the time she'd spent out in the hall. But JJ, knowing her friend needed and deserved a break, dusted off the smile usually reserved for the press and told Garcia she'd really like to have some company sifting through the tip lines for awhile. As the say, charm is quite the killer.

Emily's heart had been hammering just about out of her chest for the last half-hour, and she stopped tearing up her cuticles long enough to flip her wrist and check her watch.

Five fifty-four.

Any minute now.

Hotch had told the team that Reid's doctor was going to brief them on his condition at six o'clock. Their boss was the only one so far who'd been in to see Reid besides the Providence medical staff, as he was still in serious condition - but he hadn't given any information up to the team, no matter how many hospital cafeteria chocolate mousse éclairs Garcia attempted to bribe him with.

A twinge of pain drew Prentiss's attention down to her hands. She'd fucking damn near destroyed her nails. And she'd managed to tear a hangnail on her pinky halfway to the first knuckle. She watched, almost mesmerized as a thick globule of blood welled up on her fingernail. God, did that sting. She stared as the red droplet rolled down to the tip of her finger, then dripped down to her pant leg - and she couldn't stop thinking about how much it hurt.

Then she thought about how much it would hurt to get that finger cut off by a serrated knife instead.

And suddenly Emily's little hangnail didn't hurt so bad. And she felt nauseated. Again.

She took a deep breath, held it in. That just made her feel lightheaded. So she stood up, willed the bile back down.

Were the surgeons able to reattach that finger? Did the team or the paramedics find it? Did they even look? Was it worth it? It certainly wouldn't have been a priority, considering - well, considering everything else.

Hotch appeared suddenly at the end of the hall like an apparition. Shit. When did he get there? Wear a fucking bell or something.

Emily swallowed convulsively. Whatever happened to those famed compartmentalizing skills she used to be so proud of?

She figured she looked halfway composed by the time her boss - with the rest of his team trailing at his heels like starving puppies waiting for a scrap of meat to drop - made it to the end of the hall to room 403.

"Any news?" Hotch asked, and his face blurred a bit in Emily's eyes.

She hissed through her teeth, looked up at the overhead lights. The fluorescent glow stung her eyes, made them water. "Ahhh… No. A nurse went in a little while ago, just checked his vitals. Came out smiling, so…" She trailed off pathetically, shrugging her shoulders.

Hotch nodded, lips tight in a thin, pressed line. "Well. If everyone's ready-" He turned, acknowledging his team behind him. "We can go in. I've already had Dr. Johar paged."

"We're going in? There?" Prentiss nearly stuttered, the words almost tumbling out of her mouth. She flushed red with embarrassment when Hotch just stared at her, his eyes like little beaded lasers.

"I only trust the members of this team to keep an eye on who goes in and out of this room. I'm not going to pull us away and into a conference room, even if it's just down the hall and for a minute." Hotch looked up as a petite, mousy-looking brunette dressed in dark blue scrubs approached, then extended his hand out to her. "Dr. Johar."

"Agent Hotchner," she replied, accepting his handshake heartily. To her credit she didn't back down under his intimidating glower; she didn't even flinch. She turned and her lips pressed into a thin, grim smile as she faced Hotch's team. "Agents. If you're all ready, please." She opened the door to Reid's room and gestured for the group to follow her inside.

Morgan, standing closest to the door, hesitated. His pulse was suddenly racing. He could hear his blood rushing in his ears. He felt a tight pinch at his side and looked accusingly down at Garcia beside him. She took Morgan's hand in her own, squeezed reassuringly, and whispered, "Let's go see our boy." That was all the encouragement he needed.

Prentiss watched as the rest of her team entered into the room. Morgan and Garcia, then JJ, then Rossi. She took a step forward, then realized her knees were shaking so badly she thought she might collapse right there in the doorway.

If she peered into the room she could just barely see a mass of tangled brown curls in the bed.

Oh god.

Why was this so hard?

"Prentiss?" She turned to see Hotch standing very close behind her. He had that questioning look on his face - he knew something was wrong, he just didn't know what yet. Damn. She always forgot how good of a profiler that man really was. "Is everything all right?"

"I - yeah. Yes. Sir. I'm just going to run to the restroom. I'll be back in a jiff." _Back in a jiff?_ Jesus Christ, who was she, her mother?

Hotch watched Prentiss scurry off but he didn't pursue her. He had bigger fish to fry. Whatever issues she was dealing with would have to wait.

He stepped into the hospital room and joined his team. Garcia had already taken up residence in the plastic visitors' chair by the bed and had Reid's un-bandaged right hand clasped in both her own. Finally seeing her friend and teammate had once again brought on the tears that seemed to have been flowing nonstop for the last twenty-two hours.

Morgan and JJ hadn't looked away from Reid's sleeping form, while Rossi actively avoided that entire side of the room, his full attention on the doctor.

Dr. Sujeh Johar hadn't performed Reid's surgery but she'd been in charge of the agent's medical care since he'd been admitted. She was young, not particularly unattractive, with thick, curly black hair tied back in a short, very messy, very frizzy French braid. When she spoke she had a distinctive Indian accent, but it was obvious she knew English just as well as she knew Hindi. She was a very small woman - she almost looked like a teenager - but even in the short amount of time Hotch had dealt with her he could tell she was an extremely competent and very capable young woman. There was no one more equipped in the entire state of South Carolina for Hotch to trust in taking care of an injured member of his team. (_You don't trust women as much as men._) Hotch swallowed the acrid memory and turned to Dr. Johar, nodding at her to begin the briefing.

"First of all," began Dr. Johar, "I just want to lay to rest any concerns you all have about your teammate's care. Dr. Reid is in good hands, I assure you. Providence may not be a large hospital, but we more than make due."

Prentiss skirted into the doorway nervously. She'd thrown up her coffee dinner in the toilet stall and splashed some water on her face. Then she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. The gaunt, pale woman staring back at her wasn't the Emily Prentiss she used to recognize. She'd changed somehow, over the course of these last few years. They'd been her best - her proudest - but the rewards hadn't been without sacrifice. It wasn't just this single incident, it was all the incidents - all the close calls and people they didn't save that made her who she was today. She had to believe she was better, stronger for it. That was the only way she'd survive - the only way she knew how. She once told her mother that she enjoyed her work, that she "got satisfaction from the results." She wondered if that was still true, if that Emily Prentiss still existed somewhere.

JJ caught her eye from beside the bed, waved her in. 'Man up, Emily,' she thought to herself, and she stepped inside.

Johar tipped her head in a slight nod of recognition at Emily but continued addressing the group. "Dr. Reid woke up briefly a few hours ago but he was very delirious due to the post-op medication. He'll probably wake up periodically every few hours, but don't expect him to be very coherent until around midday tomorrow. He'll need lots of rest for the next few weeks, but I don't expect we'll have to keep him in IC for more than a couple more days. After that I'd be comfortable transferring him to a facility a little closer to home." The doctor paused, then looked to Hotch for direction. "Agent Hotchner, shall I describe the injuries?"

Hotch nodded his head. "Yes." He looked around the room at the members of his unit. "We're a team."

"All right. I understand you all know the basics so I'll skip all that. Dr. Reid was stabbed fifteen times. Twelve in the chest and abdomen, once in the right shoulder, and twice in the upper left thigh. He lost a lot of blood, but it's fortunate his blood type is AB Positive - the universal recipient. Due to internal bleeding, our surgical staff had to remove the appendix and a portion of the large intestine. Amazingly all his vital organs were left completely untouched, though honestly I'm not sure if this was on purpose or just lucky."

Rossi exchanged a deliberate glance with Hotch. They knew the truth. Nothing Brandt did was accidental. If he didn't hit any of Reid's vital organs then it was without a doubt intentional. He did intend for him to die, but he apparently didn't want it to be quick. He wanted Reid to suffer as much as possible as he bled out waiting for the team.

"One of Dr. Reid's fingers was severed," the doctor continued, gesturing to the agent's left hand wrapped in thick white gauze.

Garcia gasped out a hushed, "Oh!" before squeezing Reid's right hand tighter. She looked up, distraught, at Morgan standing beside her. "No one told me that. Why didn't anyone tell me that? JJ, why didn't you tell me that? My poor baby…"

"Garcia…" Hotch chastised. His tone was warning but his eyes were soft and sympathetic.

At Hotch's cue, the doctor went on. "It was the left pinky, at the second knuckle. Luckily, it was recovered at the scene by one of the paramedics and kept on ice so it was successfully reattached in surgery. It's healing very well and with time I don't expect any lasting damage except for slight loss in mobility." Dr. Johar cleared her throat, brown eyes once again flitting briefly to Hotch before she addressed the group. "The damage done to Dr. Reid's left knee was significant. When Dr. Reid was shot, he was fitted with an endoprosthesis - a prosthetic kneecap that's designed to feel and function like a real one. This was - um, ripped out, it seems. The damage was…severe and - unfortunately - irreparable."

When she didn't continue Morgan knew his theory had been realized. A sensation like being submerged in ice cold water washed over his body as he opened his mouth to speak. "His leg." His voice was a whisper, a croak. "Were you able to - to save the leg."

Dr. Johar looked Morgan directly in the eyes, and her sympathetic silence spoke volumes. It was all the answer he needed. She shook her head slowly. "No. I'm sorry, Agents. The damage done was too severe. The lower leg was practically detached from the thigh. There was virtually nothing but skin holding them together. There was nothing that could be done. It had to be taken a few inches above the knee. I am _so _sorry."

"Dr. Johar and I have already discussed Reid's options," Hotch interjected quickly before anyone had much chance to react, taking control of the conversation. "She's recommended a prosthetist in Virginia. Reid is going to lead a full, productive life after he recovers. He'll be able to return to work and, in time, probably even field duty." A thin ghost of a smile lightened Hotch's exhausted face for a moment. "Although I think he'll still have to leaving kicking down doors to Morgan."

Morgan let out a shaky, humorless laugh as he turned away from the group. He brought his fist up as if he were about to strike the wall, but he flattened his palm instead and rested it firmly on the white plaster.

"Hey," Garcia said gently. She stood up from her chair and moved to rest a hand on Morgan's shoulder. "We'll get him through thi-"

Morgan jerked his arm away in a quick, harsh motion that caused Garcia to jump and back up a step into the bed. "_Don't._" His body was tense, wound, like a predator readying to strike out, but his voice came out like sandpaper - rough and flat, and it was devoid of any emotion. Morgan took a few deep breaths and then calmly said to the wall, "I'm fine. I just need a minute." He brusquely weaved around his teammates and out the door.

For a moment no one moved until Garcia took a small step toward the doorway. "I should-"

"Let him go," Rossi said, his voice tired but sagely. "He's fine. He just needs to walk it off."

[…]

The hours passed slowly for Hotch. He sat next to Reid, keeping silent vigil. He had a stack of paperwork and open case files resting at the foot of the bed, which he was using as a makeshift work center. He'd been at it for hours and his vision began to blur. The words on the pages ran together and Hotch pulled away, sighing and rubbing at his eyes. The steady beeping from Reid's heart monitor produced a never-ending rhythm. With his eyes closed and his foot tapping along in beat, it almost sounded like a lullaby. He could very nearly feel his own heart sync up with the sound of Reid's. It brought with it the most minuscule feeling of comfort.

Morgan was supposed to have relieved him over an hour ago but the younger agent was nowhere to be found. Garcia had tried calling him multiple times and had even resorted to tracing his phone, but he'd apparently shut it off.

Hotch wasn't concerned. Morgan just needed to blow off some steam. The younger man had a temper - he always had - and he'd let it get the better of him on more than one occasion. But he always came back, and Hotch was confident that it would be soon; as loyal to the team and his friends as Morgan was, there was no way he'd let himself be apart from Reid for too long. He needed to watch over him. He saw it as his job.

A slight increase in the heart monitor's rhythm caused Hotch to bolt upright in his seat. He searched Reid's face in a near panic for any sign of movement, but he found none; his subordinate was as still as he'd been since Hotch sat down six hours ago.

He sank back and ran a hand down his face. He could almost feel the adrenaline drain from his body. He tried to pull his eyes away from the young man's pale face and back down to the files in front of him but he couldn't. Had Reid always been that thin? The rings under his eyes looked like dark bruises and his cheeks were so sunken in that it gave him a skeletal appearance that caused a shiver to race down Hotch's spine.

He willed himself to continue with his work. He looked down at the open file beside him - Reid's employee personnel file - and the half-completed forms in his lap - temporary leave of absence notice.

He had to believe Reid would come back. He had to have faith that he'd be strong enough. After all, Hotch hadn't thought he'd walk away after what happened to him with Hankel and he was proven wrong then. True, he stumbled a bit at first, but Reid really had come out a little better for it in the end. He was head and shoulders a better agent now than he was two years ago.

Hotch had been so convinced that when they'd made it to that graveyard in Georgia they were going to find a corpse. In fact, when they heard the gunshot and found Reid hunched over Tobias Hankel's already dead body, he first thought that Hankel had killed Reid and not the other way around.

Hotch had promised himself he'd keep a better eye on Reid after that. And not just on him - he swore he'd keep a closer watch on his entire team. He made a silent vow to be a better leader, and look at what all happened on his watch since then: Jason had a nervous breakdown and disappeared, Garcia was shot by an angel of death, Reid managed to get himself poisoned with Anthrax - and now this. He failed spectacularly.

The pencil in Hotch's hand snapped suddenly. The loud crack shook him back to his senses. His attention was once again drawn to Reid, who apparently had been startled awake by the noise.

His breath caught as he looked down on the young genius. All the things he'd planned on saying to him (apologizing for) once he'd woken up were pushed out of his mind. Light brown eyes cloudy with sleep, confusion, and a cocktail of non-narcotic painkillers darted around the room in a familiar mechanical fashion until they finally settled on his boss. Reid blinked several times in uncertainty before his eyebrows raised slightly in understanding.

"You saved me," he croaked, his voice raw from disuse.

Hotch swallowed around the lump in his throat. The emotions he'd blocked out for the sake of working the case since they received that phone call last night hit him with the force of a freight train. Tears unashamedly pricked at his eyes as he grasped Reid's hand in an almost certainly bruising grip, shaking his head miserably. "Reid," he breathed, "I am so sorry."

Reid shook his own head in return. "Hotch, don't…" He licked his dry, cracked lips and swallowed; his mouth felt like a desert. "I… Water, please?"

Hotch blinked down at him dumbly, then realized that while he was receiving vitamins intravenously, Reid hadn't had anything to drink in well over twenty-four hours. One of the nurses had helpfully placed a jug of water and a few paper cups on the side table once Reid had started to come around earlier that afternoon, and he stood up to pour some. His back turned, he heard Reid clear his throat and speak again.

"Did you catch him?"

Hotch's hands stilled and he set the jug back down on the table. He couldn't bring himself to turn and face him. "Not yet," he replied. "But we will. Garcia's tracking his accounts and his face is on every news broadcast in the country. Brandt won't be able to make a move without us knowing."

Finally Hotch moved back to the bed. He sat down and held the cup up for Reid, angling a straw toward his lips.

"I can do it," Reid told him stubbornly as he took the cup. Hotch watched him drink most of the water before the young man handed it back to him. He could tell Reid was already getting tired again and he knew it wouldn't be long before he fell asleep.

"Reid, do you want me to get your doctor? She said she'd speak with you once you woke up."

The young agent closed his eyes and considered for a moment before slowly shaking his head. "Later," he said. "I won't be able to stay awake that long, I think." He looked up at Hotch. "What's your plan?" Not waiting for an answer, he continued on, mumbling sluggishly to himself. "Mission-based killers need to know their work has been completed… I'm assuming JJ issued a press conference? Announced that Brandt had failed in his attempt to kill me?"

"Reid-"

"Hotch."

Hotch stared at Reid using his best authoritative glare, the one that used to make the insecure, skittish young man wither and fold when he first started at the BAU, but now he just stared right back at him. Reid could be unbelievably hardheaded at times, and apparently recovering from being nearly stabbed to death was no exception. Hotch sighed, rolling his eyes lightly, and Reid lazily adopted a triumphant little smirk. He knew he'd win.

Hotch scrubbed tiredly at his temples. "You need to rest, you know."

"I could use the distraction. It helps take my mind off the pain."

"Can't you just - shut your brain off, or something?"

"You know I can't," said Reid cheekily. "Besides, I plan to work this case as much as I'm able."

Against his better judgment, Hotch conceded to his subordinate's request. "Yes, it was reported that you survived Brandt's attack. We…announced what hospital you were taken to. We decided the best course of action would be to try to draw Brandt out of hiding as quickly as possible by-"

"By using me as bait."

Hotch scanned Reid's face for any resentment, any hint of malice - but there was none. He just looked exhausted.

"By setting a trap," Hotch carefully amended. "You have twenty-four hour protection. Someone from the team is either in here with you or outside the door at all times. And building security is monitoring the video feeds. Don't worry," he assured him.

"Didn't say I was worried," Reid quipped. He yawned, lethargic, and his eyes drooped a fraction more. "'S a good plan."

"Go back to sleep." He'd meant it to come out as an order, but Hotch could hear the affection in his own voice; he sounded more like a father than an FBI unit chief. "Someone will be here when you wake up. And your doctor can speak to you then."

Reid opened his mouth as if to speak, but his glazed eyes flitted over to the door and whatever words he was going to say died on his tongue. One corner of his mouth tugged up into a half-grin. "Hey…"

Hotch twisted in his seat to see Morgan standing stock-still in the open doorway. He mentally chastised himself. Some bodyguard he was; he hadn't even heard the door open.

Morgan stepped just into the threshold of the room and Hotch could see Rossi hanging back behind him. Morgan nodded at Hotch briefly and said, "Hotch, sorry I'm late. You're out, I'm in."

Hotch rose from his chair and gathered up his files and notes in one arm, then bent down to clap Reid gently on the shoulder, evidently shaking him back from almost having drifted off again. "We're glad you're okay, Reid," he said. He knew his wording sounded a bit formal, but he hoped that his tone and sincerity conveyed his concern well enough. In lieu of a verbal response, Reid briefly patted Hotch's hand, still on his shoulder, in an awkward gesture and nodded once (although it could have as easily been his head just lolling onto his shoulder in fatigue; Hotch wasn't sure).

Hotch passed by Morgan, who didn't even look up at him, all his attention on the scrawny young man in the bed. Hotch would have to sit Morgan down, give him a talking to about priorities, about obligations, about his duties to the Bureau and to the team - later. It could wait. Right now he was exactly where he needed to be.

As he joined Dave out in the hall, pulling the door closed behind him, he could faintly hear just the beginning of a conversation, both agents' voices raw with emotion.

"Reid - god, I am so-"

"Stop. Morgan, don't you dare."

"I just… Kid, I'm so happy…"

Their words faded out as the door shut with a quiet click. Hotch turned to Rossi and the older man could practically see the tension radiating off his unit chief. "You talked to him," stated Hotch.

Rossi shrugged it off, the unsaid "thank you." "Found 'em at the park down the street just sitting on a bench. Without a jacket, the moron."

Hotch hummed noncommittally in response. "How is he?"

"He's angry," Rossi told him. "And he doesn't know what to do with that anger. He's a protector, Aaron. That's the role he feels comfortable in on this team. And he feels like he's failed."

"He hasn't."

"You don't need to tell me." Rossi turned to look back at the closed door. "He just needed to lick his wounds in private."

[…]

Reid had woken up a few times for short stints throughout the night, but he was mostly very groggy and only awake for a few minutes at a time. It was when JJ was sitting with him that finally his eyes looked sharp and alert as opposed to hazy - and he asked for his doctor. JJ, for whatever shameful reason, flushed with anticipation. A hard ball of dread had formed deep in her stomach. She had no idea whether Reid realized the true severity of his situation, or if he was coherent enough yet to even be aware that he'd actually lost a limb and would now be considered handicapped - or if he knew how close he came to dying.

When Dr. Johar stepped in JJ politely stood up. She patted Reid's good hand miserably and then skittered out of the room before her teammate could see the hot tears springing to her eyes. She sat outside in the hall breathing deeply. She had to do something to quell her nerves or she'd get sick.

JJ pulled out her phone and hit the third speed dial button, bringing up Will's name. She hesitated with her thumb over the send button, craning her head to make sure no nurses were within earshot.

The phone rang four times before he picked up and JJ heard that familiar, easy Yat drawl. "Hey there, darlin'."

His voice was instantly cathartic to her, purging the stress and tension of the last few days. She let loose a gross sob as Will attempted to soothe her over the phone.

And that was all they did. They didn't carry a conversation; there was no need. For twenty minutes they sat there, halfway across the country from each other, her howling and him placating.

When Dr. Johar stepped back out, JJ offered a rushed goodbye before ending the call. She shoved her phone in her pocket and bolted up from the chair in one quick motion, looking expectantly at the doctor, who immediately extended both her hands in a calming gesture.

"Agent, please," Dr. Johar began, "it's all right. Dr. Reid is fine. He's just resting."

JJ sucked in a huge gulp of air before speaking. "So - he knows? You told him about - everything? Even the-?" Suddenly at a lack of words, she waved her own hand in a jerky motion at her own leg.

"The amputation?" the doctor finished for her. "Yes. And honestly, he took it fairly well. We talked briefly about his options going forth from here, and…" She chuckled, shaking her head amusedly. "I think that man knows more about prosthetics than I do. He kept going on and on. It was fascinating, to tell you the truth. I eventually had to basically threaten him with a sedative to get him to stop talking so he could go back to sleep."

JJ laughed out loud through the tears still brimming in her eyes. "Yeah, that sounds like our Reid…"

"You can go back in, Agent, but please let Dr. Reid rest," Johar advised, once again adopting her professional demeanor. "That conversation took quite a lot out of him. It's…a lot of information to process."

"Of course." JJ nodded, and then took Johar's hand in her own, giving it one firm shake. She looked into the doctor's eyes and earnestly said, "And thank you. For everything."

Dr. Johar smiled politely. "Of course, Agent," she replied before turning and walking off down the hall.

When JJ reentered the room, she found Reid still awake, though he looked significantly more drained than he had when she left. "Hey, Spence," she greeted cautiously (when did she start being cautious around Reid?). "How're you doing?"

"It's not that bad, you know," was the stern response. JJ crinkled her brow in confusion, but before she had a chance to ask Reid ploughed on, a bundle of subdued excitement. "There have been a lot of significant advances in prosthetics in recent years. In fact, in 2007 a prosthetic arm was created that operates solely on brain impulses using a technique called targeted muscle reinnervation. And lots of transfemoral amputees go on to lead very normal, very successful lives. With high quality prosthetics and physical therapy, most can begin to walk fairly normally after just a few months…"

JJ smiled wanly and let Reid ramble on for several more minutes until he eventually talked himself to sleep. She knew it comforted him - facts to Reid were like a security blanket wrapping around and protecting his body. And despite the warm familiarity of statistics, she could hear the barely discernible tremor in his voice, one that wasn't caused by fatigue or medication - but fear.

And that hurt her more than anything.

[…]

Hotch hadn't slept much since the BAU arrived in Blythewood eight days ago. He justified it by considering the difficulty of the case and complexity of the unsub, then the stress of Reid's attack, and of course being separated from his family had been weighing heavily on his mind (and Foyet was always back there as well, boxed up neatly in a corner but definitely not forgotten). However, when he did sleep, he did not dream. He would wake a few hours (or one hour, or twenty minutes - who could keep track?) later from a dark, restless void feeling more exhausted than before.

But that night he did dream. Two nights after Reid first woke up in the hospital Hotch took Prentiss's advice and intended on getting a full night's rest. The entire evening he was plagued by nightmares of what could have been - of discovering Reid's lifeless body, only it had been ripped to shreds, and instead of Ayden Brandt being responsible they found The Reaper still standing over him, his blood dripping from the man's mouth. And then he looked down again and Reid's corpse had morphed into Haley and a white hot panic seized his chest because how did she even get there and did it even matter anymore because look at her look at what he did to her and what happened to Reid and where was Jack oh god was Jack all right-

And he'd never been more relieved to be bolted awake by his ringing phone in his entire life.

Hotch scrabbled in the dark for his cell phone on the table beside his bed. His palms were sweaty and he fumbled for it briefly, nearly knocking it off the table, before he grasped it tightly in his shuddering hand. He held it up to his face, squinting against the glowing light of the screen, and recognized the number as being Sheriff Hadley's personal cell. He cleared his throat and accepted the call, brusquely muttering, "Hotchner," into the phone.

"Agent Hotchner? It's Walt Hadley," the sheriff responded gruffly. Even over the phone the older man's voice sounded tense and coiled, like a compressed spring. "I know it's late and I hate to be botherin' you, but your team needs to get to Providence Hospital right away."

That hot terror was back, gripping at Hotch's insides again and squeezing them in beat with his hammering heart. He sat up the rest of the way in bed, all thoughts of his nightmare forgotten. "What is it?" he managed to croak out in the steadiest voice possible.

Sheriff Hadley inhaled deeply and grimly reported, "We got another body."

[…]

Whew, that was a long one. So don't hate me for crippling Reid. It had to be done. For reasons.

To those of you expressing concerns about me finishing this story in a timely manner, please don't fret your pretty little heads. I do have quite a bit of this drafted out and I know how it's going to end (kinda sorta). Expect some twists along the way though. In the meantime, reviews fuel my fire. You guys are so cool.


	4. Chapter 4

Your reviews make me happier than a bird with a French fry. I feel like we're becoming best friends. Yaaaas. Also, I'm watching "Revelations" right now for the derpteenth time so UNFF.

I'm really sorry about the delay in getting this chapter out. I've just had a really busy week and haven't had a lot of time to work on it. I hope it's up to your standards!

If I titled my chapters, this one would be called, "Rated for Stabbiness and Morgan's Foul Mouth."

[…]

It was just nearly three thirty in the morning when the team arrived at the hospital. Before proceeding to rouse his agents, Hotch had asked Sheriff Hadley the question he'd been dreading: "It's not - Sheriff, it's not my agent-?" He had no idea how he'd gotten the words out with how tight his throat felt.

"No," Hadley had assured him immediately in a firm tone. "No, it's - aw shit. Agent Hotchner, you better just get down here."

The team could see the lights from the army of police vehicles long before they pulled up. It was drizzling out and a thick fog had rolled in while they slept. One young officer was getting sick near some decorative bushes off to the right. Sheriff Walt Hadley marched forward to greet them as the agents unloaded from their SUVs, and he began without preamble. "It's bad. The worst yet," the man said, pale faced and clearly agitated. "We got 'er covered in a sheet on account a the rain." He led them to a barricaded section of the hospital parking lot. Toward the back row of spaces was a body covered in a bloodied white sheet, and blood spatter and tissue was extending outward from there. Hadley rubbed the back of his head uncomfortably and squinted at Hotch out the corner of his eye. "I - I've seen things, Agent Hotchner, but this… I can't go back over there."

"It's all right," Hotch said, kind yet stern, as he moved forward.

Hadley stepped away to join his officers, throwing a broken, "I'm sorry…" over his shoulder at the agents as they stepped past him.

Prentiss pulled out a pair of neon green neoprene gloves from her back pocket, then knelt down and lifted a corner of the sheet, peeking at what laid underneath. She crinkled her nose and looked up at her unit chief. "Hotch…"

She fully removed the sheet to reveal the body - or what was left of it. This person had been a woman, and she'd been hacked nearly to pieces. Her face was now completely unrecognizable, more resembling ground meat than anything. Her chest was ripped wide open and her insides pulled out, and apparently Brandt had tried to carry them away if the bloody trail leading away from the body was any indication. She was slim, with brown skin and thick black hair, much of which had been ripped out at the roots and was resting on the ground around her head, like some macabre halo. And she was wearing-

Dark blue hospital scrubs.

"Oh my god," JJ murmured chokingly. "Is that-? That's Dr. Johar."

"What the fuck," Morgan breathed out angrily under his breath.

"Dr. Armstrong, the chief of medicine - he said Sujeh left work 'bout close to three," Hadley supplied. "We got a 911 call just after that. The nurses heard screamin' comin' from the parking lot, but by the time they got out here, well…" He gestured with both his hands at the mutilated body before them.

"This…is significantly different from all of Brandt's other kills," Emily pointed out, bending down to get a better look. "Looks like he used the same weapon, but he didn't stop at stabbing her fifteen times. He…destroyed her."

"Looks like he ripped her ribcage apart by hand," Morgan added.

Emily shifted her angle and her eyebrows shot up in surprise. "And he sexually assaulted her with the knife." She looked up at Hotch, her expression tortured. "That's a first."

"And there's no doll," Hotch said. "She wasn't the target. Brandt came here hoping to get to Reid. When he realized he couldn't without going through an armed FBI agent, he probably took his rage out on the first person he saw-"

"Dr. Johar," JJ finished for him.

"Hotch, this attack was rushed, angry. He didn't take nearly as much time with this victim as he did with the others," Morgan explained, his expression brooding and concerned. "He's not gonna be able to keep himself away for much longer."

"I know," replied Hotch contemplatively. "If he was willing to risk getting caught like this and to deviate so wildly from his established MO, then he's devolving."

"I'll say," JJ chimed in hostilely under her breath.

Hotch turned to Sheriff Hadley again. "Sheriff, would it be possible to post some of your officers outside the hospital for extra security? They could escort patients and staff to and from their cars."

"We're a small department, Agent. We don't really got a lotta manpower as it is…" Hadley said. His eyes strayed once again to the exposed body on the ground. His expression became firm, resolute, as he looked back at Hotch. "But this can't happen again. To no one. We'll do everything we can - we'll make it work. You got my word."

"Thank you." Hotch turned to address his team. "Prentiss, Morgan, go ahead and relieve Rossi. Fill him in. And…be vigilant. Now that Brandt's devolving so rapidly we have no way of predicting what his next move will be." Emily nodded fiercely. "JJ, I want you to go back to the hotel. Garcia is busy digging up anyone even remotely connected to Brandt who still lives in or around Blythewood. Help her sort through potential hideaways. Make a list of any house calls we can make in the morning. Nothing is too insignificant - former employers, old classmates - anything."

"Got it," JJ replied quickly, turning and heading for one of the SUVs.

"And Sheriff Hadley. The sooner we can get a patrol out here the better." The older man moved to step forward past Hotch, but the agent caught his arm lightly. "Did you know her?" Hotch asked quietly, mindful of the officers still mulling around the crime scene. Hadley's eyes widened significantly. "Earlier you referred to her by her first name."

Hadley's lips pressed together. To an experienced profiler, it was clear he was trying to hold back grief. "Blythewood's a small town. Everybody knows everybody. McCullough-" He tipped his head at the young police officer stumbling away from the bushes. "He lives right next door to 'er. Watches her cat when she goes outta town. And, uh… She's my granddaughter's doctor. Kayla loves her. Calls her Dr. Sue." He smiled faintly, but it was short-lived. When he looked back up into Hotch's eyes, he looked weathered and old, much older than he had eight days ago when they first met. "She was a good woman. She didn't deserve to die like this. None a these women did."

"I agree," Hotch replied earnestly. "The sooner we can catch this man the better. And - if you need anyone to talk to, please don't hesitate, Sheriff. I _am_ sorry for your loss." He extended a hand in a sign of solidarity. Hadley seemed to have to bite back his emotions and reign in his will to accept it.

"Thank you, Agent. Really. And, uh, I'll get right on that patrol."

Hotch watched the older man lumber off to address his officers, then turned back to find Morgan had hung back after he'd been dismissed. Seeing that Hotch was finished speaking with Sheriff Hadley, Morgan approached him, hands in the pockets of his leather jacket and posture almost defensive.

"Is something wrong?" Hotch asked, careful to keep his tone from sounding accusatory.

"Hotch, this guy has been like a ghost so far," he stated. Up close Hotch could see the fatigue that had been wearing on Morgan - on all of them - since the start of this case. "He doesn't exist outside of his kills."

Hotch hesitated uncharacteristically. "Garcia's working on narrowing down-"

"Tell me you honestly believe someone this organized - someone this _fucking good _at what he does - would be that stupid." Morgan's voice was firm, but he wasn't shouting. His gaze burrowed deeply into Hotch's own eyes, daring the older man to contradict him. He didn't. "Come on, man, the guy's hunting while in the middle of devolving and even then the crime scene doesn't give us anything new except that he's pissed off. We can't catch a break. Trying to catch this guy - it's like spitting against the wind."

Hotch pressed his hand against the buzzing phone in his jacket pocket. "Morgan, he's not a ghost. He's just a man. And we'll catch him."

Morgan squared his jaw. Hotch could see the grown man's petulance shining through. "Is that gonna be before or after he rips apart one of our teammates?"

Hotch refused to dignify that with a response. He held Morgan's gaze as he pulled his cell phone out of his pocket. Morgan could see his boss's eyes narrow at the text on the screen, then the man's jaw went slack and his face paled dramatically.

"Hotch, what is it?" Hotch didn't react. Morgan roughly grabbed his elbow. "Hotch!"

Hotch, still looking down at his cell phone, muttered out, "It's Sam Kassmeyer." He looked up at his subordinate, and when it was clear Morgan still didn't understand, he clarified, his eyes unfocused. "The US Marshal assigned to my family. Excuse me."

Hotch walked away from Morgan toward one of the SUVs to get away from the crime scene techs chatting just a few feet away at the doctor's body, his stride a quick clip against the wet concrete. He got in the driver's side and immediately dialed Sam's number. Rossi approached Morgan from behind, looking on at the younger man who was standing in place, stunned.

"What is it?" he asked, looking on in the direction in which Morgan was staring.

Morgan slowly shook his head in response. "I don't know," he said finally, his words precise and drawn out. "Rossi, Hotch just got a message from the Marshals."

Rossi immediately perked up, his brows drawing together in concern. "What? Is it Jack and Haley?"

"I don't know." Morgan was beginning to sound exasperated, but Rossi knew it was just out of concern for Hotch and his family. "He got a message, but he didn't say anything about it."

Suddenly Hotch jumped out of the SUV and immediately jogged over to the other two agents.

Rossi could see a subdued hysteria blooming on Hotch's face. He held out a calming hand and took a preemptive step forward. "Aaron-"

"It's Foyet," Hotch interrupted. And although his face was in turmoil, his voice was calm and placid. "He's found Haley and Jack. Their location's been compromised."

Morgan growled out a string of curses. How much more could they take?

Rossi, levelheaded and with a placating temperament, carefully asked, "Are they okay?"

"He broke in while they were asleep but he didn't touch them." He hesitated. Morgan had never seen Hotch look vulnerable, and his unit chief suddenly looked like a different man. "I need to go."

"And we're coming with you," Rossi retorted in support.

"No," replied Hotch immediately. "You all need to stay here, work this case."

"Hotch, this is your family we're talking about-"

"So is Reid." Hotch was adamant, and there was a tense silence where Rossi clearly battled over his torn loyalties before Hotch continued. "If we leave now he's as good as dead."

"At least take someone with you," Morgan basically pleaded. "We can manage."

After a slight moment's thought Hotch came to a definitive decision. "Prentiss," he said, absolute. "Her head's been out of this case since Reid was attacked."

"I'll go grab her," offered Morgan, already jogging backwards toward the hospital behind him.

"Do you know where you're going?" Rossi inquired, desperate to do something to help his friend.

"Not yet. Sam's going to call me once he gets a secure line set up. I might need to take to take the jet."

"Of course. We're not going anywhere." Rossi was left staring at Hotch, who in turn was staring at the ground. "Hotch." Hotch looked up, his expression set in a grim scowl. "It'll be okay. They're not hurt, they're fine."

Hotch's eyes squinted into a hardened glare, his balled fists shaking with intensity. "Jack got up in the middle of the night. He woke Haley up to ask her who was writing on the walls in his bedroom."

Rossi opened his mouth, then closed it again, his face unreadable.

Hotch continued. "He was in my son's bedroom, Dave. He wrote a message on the wall in blood. For me."

"Was it his own blood?"

"The test results haven't come back yet. We should know in a few hours."

Still, Agent Rossi's expression seemed passive as he asked, "What did it say?"

Hotch sucked in a huge gulp of air between his teeth. It somehow felt like the first breath he'd taken in two days. "'You should have made a deal.' He could have - he could've killed Jack tonight."

"But he didn't."

"Because he's just toying with me!" Hotch all but shouted.

Emily came running up to her teammates, breathless. "What the _hell_ is going on? Morgan just told me it was an emergency. And - _Foyet-?_"

Hotch didn't bother responding to her. Instead he barely glanced at her, his stoic unit chief disposition firmly back in place. "With me." He turned back to Rossi. "Keep me updated on what happens here."

Rossi nodded once. "You too."

Emily threw an annoyed, puzzled look in Rossi's direction before following Hotch and hopping in the passenger's side of the SUV. Hotch wasted no time, peeling away from the parking lot with the tires screaming and the siren blaring.

[…]

Reid was awake when Morgan poked his head into the room and summoned Prentiss out into the hallway. She'd only just gotten there a few minutes ago. Reid had tried to inquire about what the commotion was outside, but Prentiss relented to tell him.

It was odd; Emily seemed almost uncomfortable. Reid assumed it was just that she was unnerved with the situation, that she didn't know what to say - "How do you feel?" was kind of a pointless thing to ask.

Then he remembered how horrible he'd been to Prentiss when he was suffering from PTSD after Georgia. How no matter what she said or how helpful or friendly she was being, Reid always had some biting comment to shoot back.

Emily was probably afraid of him, afraid that he'd lash out at her again.

Reid suddenly felt deeply ashamed and was immediately relieved when Morgan switched out with Emily, which just made him feel even worse.

Morgan sat down in the chair beside the bed but didn't even acknowledge Reid. He hunched forward with his elbows on his knees and scrubbed fruitlessly at his face.

Reid licked his lips and spoke in a hushed voice: "What time is it?"

Morgan lifted his head from his hands and slowly looked to his left at Reid. It was almost as if he'd forgotten he was even there. "Uhhh…" He belatedly looked down at his wristwatch. "Just after four." Reid's expression didn't falter at all so he added, "AM."

Reid brought up a hand to rub his palm lazily at his eyes. "My internal clock's all…messed up."

"Tell me about it…" Morgan leaned back and propped his feet up on the hospital bed.

Reid studied Morgan's guarded expression for a moment. His teammate looked so tense. Maybe whatever was up with Emily had nothing to do with Reid's behavior at all. "So what happened?"

"Reid, you don't need to worry about-"

"I'll find out sooner or later," Reid interjected, sounding rather annoyed. "Garcia's so sympathetic right now she'd give me anything I asked."

And of course Morgan knew he was right. Garcia had been nothing but doting since Reid had woken up. Hotch had to order the analyst back to the hotel so she could actually get some work done. Ever the mother hen, Garcia had busied herself all evening with showering Reid with smothering affection, watching "Dr. Who" DVDs that she'd somehow found the time to check out at the local library, and mysteriously procuring insane amounts of Jell-O for him (Morgan would never forget about how the first thing Reid asked for after waking up from near-fatal Anthrax poisoning, ridiculously enough, was Jell-O; the "am hurt, need Jell-O" jokes went on for weeks). Garcia had even proudly presented Reid with the socks she'd knitted for him, then burst out in shameful tears upon realizing that he didn't need _pairs _of socks anymore. Reid had awkwardly comforted his friend, reminding her that he avoided wearing matching socks anyway and that he greatly appreciated the sentiment.

So yes. Reid would find out one way or another.

"Reid… Your doctor was killed."

Morgan watched as Reid absorbed this statement silently. His lips pursed, the corners of his mouth turning down. It was a look Morgan had seen innumerable times before, the face he'd make whenever he was processing information. Garcia jokingly referred to it as his "turtle face."

Finally Reid spoke. "Was there anything significant about the kill."

"Extreme overkill," Morgan said. "He sexually assaulted her with the knife, which he's never done before. He also tore out her hair and mutilated the body. He disemboweled her by hand."

Morgan heard Brandt's words replay hauntingly in his mind - "_I've got my whole hand in his gut._" He watched as Reid's fingertips ghosted lightly over his stomach, feeling tenderly at the stitches - and the hole in his stomach where Brandt forced his hand inside of him.

Elle had told Reid that after Randall Garner attacked her, she could still feel the man's fingers in her bullet wound. Morgan wondered morbidly if it was the same for Reid.

"He's angry," Reid said, calculating eyes hardened and staring off at something Morgan could only imagine. With a mind like his, the kid could probably recreate the crime scene as it was just going off of what little detail he'd given him. It was likely perfectly preserved in his mind, all the way down to how the poor woman's limbs were splayed out around her. "He didn't expect me to survive. He'll kill again," he continued, his focus shifting up to Morgan's face, his eyes wide. "He _has _to finish his ritual. And until he does he'll keep getting more and more aggressive."

"We'll catch him, Reid. It won't come to that. Just - we'll get him, okay?"

Reid quirked his head to the side and stared at Morgan. His hair was a wild nest of tangled ringlets, messy from sleep. Morgan thought he looked almost like a curious puppy that knew his master was hiding a treat behind his back.

"What?" Morgan shot as he shifted uncomfortably in his seat, suddenly self-conscious with how intensely his teammate's eyes were boring into his face.

Reid blinked, and the spell was broken. "There's something else. What aren't you telling me?"

Morgan simply looked at him, keeping his face as neutral as possible.

"You're twisting up the hem of your shirt," Reid said by way of explanation, nodding his head at Morgan's hands in his lap. "It's your tell."

Morgan scowled, immediately stilling his hands and smoothing out his now wrinkled t-shirt. Even bedridden and drugged up, Reid was still a perceptive bastard.

Morgan leaned forward, pulling his feet off the bed. "Hotch got called away. And Emily. There was…an emergency."

"What happened?"

Morgan hung his head and set his jaw. "Foyet found Haley and Jack."

Reid practically jumped up in bed trying to sit up. He didn't say anything, but the alarm written across his face was clear. Whatever reaction Morgan was expecting, it wasn't that. Reid was usually very internalized with his emotions. It was surprising to see him acting so brazenly on instinct.

Morgan had to actually force Reid back down, pushing him back by his shoulders. "Stop - Reid, stop. Calm down. There's nothing we can do right now."

Sweat beaded on Reid's face and neck, and he allowed his exhausted body to be pushed back into the bed with little resistance. The heart rate monitor began to slow. Breathing heavily, he ran a trembling hand through his hair to smooth it away from his face. "Are they-? Are they…?" He licked his lips, looked up at Morgan through a curtain of hair. "…Dead?"

"No. Oh god, Reid, no," Morgan assured him instantly. "Foyet broke into their house. He left a message on the wall. But he didn't touch them. Hotch and Emily are going to investigate. I'm not sure what's going to happen now though."

"They'll have to move Jack and Haley again," Reid supplied, finally catching his breath.

Morgan nodded thoughtfully. "Yeah. But that's the least of their worries now. If Foyet found them once, he sure as hell can do it again." Reid nodded quietly. His body sagged against the bed, worn out now that the adrenaline was leaving his body. Morgan watched as his left hand moved to his thigh, gripping weakly at the blanket covering his leg. Morgan looked down at him thoughtfully. "Does it hurt?"

Reid shifted self-consciously, drawing his hand away from his leg hastily. "The…medicine dulls the pain. Takes the edge off. It doesn't bother me so much." Morgan didn't back down, obviously not satisfied with the deflective response, and Reid appeared to give in. "You've heard of…phantom limb pain?" he asked, uncomfortably looking up at his teammate. "It's strange. I can feel this - this burning sting shooting through my whole leg - down to my foot and back up again. But I know it's not - it's not there. It's unnerving."

Morgan sighed helplessly. He felt so feeble, unable to provide any relief for his young friend. "Hey, kid. How about a distraction - you feeling up to answering a few questions?" He tried to keep his tone light, but his own apprehension shined through.

The slightest look of hesitation flashed across Reid's eyes, but then it was gone. He licked his lips and shifted his eyes downward, clearly not eager to discuss the particulars of his attack. "I don't remember a lot of details. It's…pretty hazy. What do you need to know?"

Morgan folded his hands together in his lap, leaning forward slightly in his chair. "Hotch and I profiled the crime scene. Looks like you put up one hell of a fight in there." He felt a small rush of pride at the shy smile on Reid's lips before he continued. "Brandt took your gun with him when he ran, Reid. But from what we could tell, it looked like you didn't try to use it. Do you remember what happened?"

Reid's features creased in deliberation. His eyes flitted back and forth rapidly, like he was turning the pages of a book in his mind. "I don't…" he began quietly, then he shook his head. "I remember he came up from behind me. I was, ah, standing up. In front of the whiteboard."

"Did you hear him coming?" Morgan encouraged gently. "Maybe you turned around and saw him."

Reid shook his head minutely. "No. It was quiet. I didn't hear anything. I just - I felt this pain. Like…an _explosion_ in my knee. It was worse than the actual gunshot."

"What was it? Did he hit you?"

First he was silent, then Reid looked up sharply, remembering the details. "It was the knife. He - he plunged it into my knee."

Morgan's face screwed up in sympathy. "You went down."

"Yeah. And he was - he was on top of me so fast. I-I didn't have time to react."

"What happened, Reid?" prompted Morgan. "Do you remember what _you_ did?"

The young genius closed his eyes in concentration. "I - I went for my gun. My left hand was on my knee, but I reached for my gun with my right. But he…" His eyes popped open with realization and he looked incredibly uncomfortable. Morgan waited patiently while Reid stammered out his answer. "His hand. He, um, his hand was on my - genitals. He…grabbed me and - squeezed. It - he diverted my attention just long enough for him to…" Reid trailed off wretchedly, ashamed.

"Reid…" Morgan groused. "It's not your fault, okay? Brandt knew what he was doing."

Reid gave him a tight, stiff nod, but it was clear he was still humiliated with what Brandt had done to him. "He had my gun. But he didn't use it. He - he ripped the knife out of my knee. But I wasn't… I managed to buck him off me. I…think…I elbowed him? In the nose."

"My man," Morgan gushed proudly, grinning now. Reid shrugged and huffed out a stifled laugh before continuing.

"It was enough to get him off me."

"Did you try to run?"

"No. I knew - in my condition I knew I wouldn't make it far. I could barely walk. I grabbed the first thing within reach."

"Your crutches," supplied Morgan, and Reid nodded his head in confirmation.

"I swung at him. I remember that." He paused, then narrowed his eyes. "I don't remember much else. I mean, we fought, but it was pretty one-sided," he admitted. "I'm sorry. I don't think there's anything else helpful."

Morgan was quick to reassure him, saying, "It's okay, Reid. If you remember anything else significant, just - you know."

"Yeah," Reid whispered softly, his voice resigned. "Yeah, I know. I will."

[…]

The morning had gone by quickly. After the discovery of Dr. Johar's body early in the morning, what remained of the BAU team had forgone sleep and went straight to work incorporating any new information into their profile. JJ and Garcia were still whittling away at the list of prospective hideaways for Brandt, Morgan had been holed up in Reid's hospital room, and with Hotch gone Rossi had assumed the role of team leader, delegating between the FBI and the Blythewood Police Department.

Sheriff Hadley had been quick and efficient about setting up patrol at the hospital. His officers were compliant and more than willing to pull extra shifts to do whatever they could to help catch Brandt and prevent anymore gruesome murders (one of the officers' younger sister had been the fourth victim, so their fire had substantial fuel).

Rossi had just been introduced to Dr. Althea Belcast, Reid's new doctor for the rest of his stay. She was a portly black woman in her late fifties with short graying hair. She had the wrinkled, tired eyes of an overworked woman on the verge of retirement, but she also had a sweet smile and a kind voice. She assured Rossi that Reid was in very good condition and that if he had any questions he wasn't to hesitate to call her directly.

Rossi had just turned away from Dr. Belcast when his phone vibrated in his pocket. Walking toward the nearest exit, he pulled the phone out to see Hotch's name lit up on the screen. He stepped outside and pressed the phone to his ear, and before he had the chance to utter even a word in greeting, Hotch's voice rumbled through the receiver like angry thunder. He could just hear Prentiss calling Hotch's name warningly in the background.

"We're coming back," he snarled, breath coming in quick puffs like he was running.

"Aaron," began Rossi calmly. "What's going-?"

"The blood work came back," Hotch continued, speaking over Rossi's voice.

"Well whose was it?" Rossi demanded.

"Sujeh Johar's."

[…]

Morgan, JJ, and Garcia sat hunched around their work table. This changed everything. And worse yet, it yielded no helpful new information. Morale had dropped significantly since Hotch's call a little over an hour ago.

"How are Brandt and Foyet even connected?" Morgan asked, his frustration at its peak.

"I don't know," cried Garcia defensively. "We combed through every freaking little detail of Brandt's life and I swear they've never crossed paths. These two are as dissimilar as apples and oranges. Psychotic apples and oranges, yes, but still. But, my sweets, The Galactic Network has never failed me before. Trust me, if there's anything there at all, and I _do mean anything_ - a mutual Facebook friend, their grandfathers were in the Scouts together - if they both use the same brand _toothbrush_ - you best believe I will find it and you will know as soon as I do. _Holla._"

"Any personal connections we've made so far have been so insignificant they're hardly worth exploring," JJ concurred, picking up where Garcia had dramatically left off. "Brandt dropped out of school when he was fifteen and he hasn't had contact with any old classmates as far as we can tell. He has a great-aunt and uncle but they live in Spokane and haven't spoken to him since he was a child. Beyond that - nothing. His parents were extremely neglectful and they practically isolated him from the outside world as a child. This guy literally doesn't have ties to anyone." She scrubbed viciously at her eyelids before taking a sip of her coffee. She recoiled at the dull, bitter taste of the lukewarm caffeine. "Ugh," she groaned, rising from her seat. "Coffee?"

"Please," said Morgan, handing off his empty Styrofoam cup. Garcia smiled thinly and shook her head, waving JJ off. Morgan stared up at the evidence board. Brandt's chilling visage glared back at him. He was a large man, physically fit; he'd have to be in order to so easily overpower and dominate his victims. His eyes were an ice blue, almost gray, and they looked hollow. Almost like they were gazing directly through Morgan's body from the photograph, paper tearing into flesh.

Unnerved, he tore his eyes away and shifted his concentration down the whiteboard. Fourteen women, all young, blonde, and beautiful. Smiling young women in the primes of their lives. And then, beside each image of each woman was another picture, this one macabre and grotesque. Bloody messes of torn flesh and exposed bone.

Then Reid's picture next to them. His employee profile picture, from when he first joined the team. He looked young, even for his twenty-two years. His face was pale and angular, his features striking in the bad lighting. He looked tired. He looked ill. Morgan wondered if that would ever change.

Beside that was a picture of the room where he was attacked. It was difficult to believe it had happened just a few days ago and just down the hall. It all seemed like several long lifetimes ago.

Next was Dr. Johar's picture. Her hair was down, tight black curls around her face. She was smiling, barely grinning. She looked shy, maybe inquisitive. In the next picture she looked nothing like the young woman she had once been.

Lastly, at the very end, George Foyet's mug shot had been pinned up, and a large question mark had been written on a lime green post-it note directly below that.

"We're better than this," Morgan mused out loud, irritated. The _ticka-ticka-ticka_ of Garcia's fingers flying across her keyboard stopped suddenly, and Morgan looked up to see her staring at him curiously. "We're letting everyone down if we can't catch these guys. Reid, Hotch, Haley and Jack - the families of the fifteen women he's already killed. We've been here a week and we're no closer to catching Brandt than we were when we got here. And now he's gone and allied himself with the Reaper? We're supposed to be good at this. This is _what we do._"

Garcia's eyes softened, and when she spoke her voice sounded piteous. "Yeah, honey. And this is what _they_ do. People like Brandt and George Foyet."

JJ stormed through the door, coffee forgotten, and she braced against the door frame. "I just ran into Sheriff Hadley," she panted, eyes wild. "There's been _another_ murder. Inside the hospital this time."

[…]

Morgan and Rossi stood over the still-warm body of a deceased young man on the floor of the hospital's pharmacy. JJ had traded places with Rossi to sit with Reid, and Garcia joined her since Morgan wasn't comfortable leaving her at the hotel or the police station by herself.

"His name's Dylan Forsythe," Sheriff Hadley informed them. "Only been workin' here about two weeks. Just got outta college."

"Who found him?" Morgan asked, kneeling down closer to the body.

"Uhhh, lady named Gabby Kershaw. His shift was over, she was relieving him. She's giving her statement in a conference room down the hall. …Agents, they think he's been dead in here for a couple hours."

Rossi inspected the small pharmacy carefully, trained eyes scrutinizing every detail. "Nothing looks out of place. No drawers or cabinets left open."

"Everything's locked up still," Hadley explained. "Only the pharmacy tech on duty and the chief of medicine have keys. Dylan's are still in his pocket. When we're done the hospital's gonna run an inventory, make sure nothing's missing, but it looks like your guy didn't wanna steal anything."

"He's showing off now," Morgan fumed. "He's proving to us that even with our added precautions, he could still get to Reid if he wanted."

Rossi slowly shook his head. "I don't think so. This kill was quick and clean," he observed, crouching down beside Morgan to closer examine the slain young man. "Look - just one quick stab through the back of the neck - and then it's over. This wasn't about making the victim suffer or completing a ritual like all the others. This kill was out of necessity."

Morgan pondered for a moment, digesting the information. "So what did this guy have that Brandt needed?"

Before Rossi could think up a response, a young nurse barged into the room. Her eyes flitted momentarily to the body on the floor before looking up at Rossi, then to Morgan. She had the decency to look embarrassed for interrupting and flushed red before stuttering out her explanation.

"Excuse me, Agents - I-I'm so sorry. Dr. Belcast sent me - there's a problem - please, you need to come right away."

The two agents left Hadley with the crime scene and followed the nurse at a feverish pace to the wing of the building Reid was in. When they got to the door they were met with Garcia and JJ waiting anxiously outside. Garcia's face was white as a sheet and her brown eyes looked glassy, but she wasn't crying. JJ, although far from composed, looked very stern. Her body was rigid and her arms were crossed tightly over her chest.

As they got closer, it was easy to see the flecks of red on JJ's chin, her neck, on the collar of her white button-up.

"Is that blood?" Rossi asked, reaching out to finger the fabric of JJ's shirt. His fingers came away slick and wet.

JJ looked down, startled. Like she had just realized it was there. "It's - it's not mine."

"What the hell happened?" Morgan snarled, and JJ physically jumped at the timber of his voice.

"I - I'm not sure," JJ said. Her voice was austere, but there was a quiver there too. She looked up, her blue eyes wide with adrenaline and shock. "He was asleep." Her voice cracked and she bit the emotion back. "And then he woke up and started coughing. And the - machines started going off and - and he stopped breathing."

Morgan looked on, stunned. He looked over at the closed door, almost willing it to bow under his glare.

"I called for help," Garcia interjected fretfully. "Morgan, he was vomiting blood."

"Christ," Rossi moaned quietly.

"They kicked us out when he-" JJ swallowed thickly, running a hand over her blonde hair. "He flat lined."

"_What-?!_"

"It happened really fast," Garcia jumped in, cutting Morgan off. "He was _fine._ He was fine and then - oh god…" She shuddered out a breath of air, her shoulders shaking.

"Fuck. _Fuck!_ _Son of a bitch! _What the fuck is going on?" Morgan bellowed out, his rage mounting.

"Morgan-" Rossi warned.

"No. _No._ I need to know how this happened."

JJ glared up at him, her eyes hardened defensively with tears and frustration. "We don't know," she ground out through gritted teeth. "And you're not helping."

"Not helping? _None of us_ are helping!"

"You need to calm down." Rossi stepped toward Morgan, resting a firm hand on the younger man's shoulder, which Morgan immediately knocked off.

"Rossi, don't tell me to calm down! Look at us - all we've been doing is chasing our own tails since we got here. And we literally. Have. Nothing. Meanwhile Brandt and Foyet are killing right under our noses and they somehow _still_ got to Reid." Morgan looked past Rossi at JJ, his face full of callus rage. "On _your_ watch."

JJ balked at the blatant accusation. She unfolded her arms from her body and fisted her hands at her sides, stepping up confrontationally to Morgan, clearly indignant. "What the hell does that mean."

"It means I would never let anything happen to him!"

"Don't yell at her!" Penelope cried out. "You weren't in there, Morgan. JJ saved Reid - he stopped breathing and she gave him mouth-to-mouth until the doctors came in."

Morgan didn't back down, though he remained silent. He and JJ glowered at each other, nose-to-nose, before he spun on his heel to head back down the hall.

"Where are you going?" JJ called after him.

Morgan stopped, turned around, and clipped back over to JJ. When he spoke, his voice was a deep, menacing tremor. "Remember back in Georgia when you asked me if everyone blamed you for Reid getting taken by Hankel?" He let the memory sink in, sting at JJ's mind. "We did."

With that he stormed off down the hall and out of sight, leaving his broken team behind him.

It was about fifteen minutes later when Dr. Belcast, another doctor, and two nurses stepped out of Reid's room. Belcast looked solemn as she grimly peeled bloody latex gloves off her hands.

Garcia immediately jumped up from her seat. JJ perked up from where she was leaning against the wall, and Rossi stepped forward, hands in his jeans pockets.

"He's stabilized," the doctor began, though she looked anything but positive as she continued. "But we're going to have to rush Spencer to emergency surgery."

"What?" Garcia crooned miserably. "God, he's been through enough! Why won't that man just leave him alone?"

"What happened to him?" JJ asked as she laced her fingers tightly through Garcia's. "The blood…"

"Pulmonary hemorrhage. It's an internal hemorrhaging of the lungs," Dr. Belcast replied. "But this sort of thing doesn't just happen on its own overnight. We would've seen the signs. We've drawn blood samples and I'm going to have them rushed as a first priority at the lab."

"What, you think he was poisoned?" Rossi asked in near disbelief. It took only a second for all the pieces to click together in his mind. His mouth gaped and he turned abruptly to face JJ and Garcia. "The kid who was killed today."

"What?" JJ asked as her eyes narrowed in confusion.

"He worked in the pharmacy," he clarified. "Brandt could have killed him to get access to whatever drugs Reid is on. He could have tainted his medicine. It's at least worth looking into."

"Do you have any idea what could have caused a hemorrhage like this?" JJ demanded animatedly, whirling to face the doctor.

Dr. Belcast's lips quirked together momentarily as she thought. "It's going to be a short list. Some antibiotics, some chemotherapy drugs."

"Will it be something just anyone can purchase over-the-counter?" Rossi asked her.

Belcast shook her head resolutely. "No, absolutely not. Something this fast-acting and powerful - you'd need to have a prescription or have direct access to some very serious drugs to get it."

"I'll need that list as soon as possible, Doctor," Garcia said. The tears were now gone and replaced with a renewed, determined vigor.

"She can track prescriptions," Rossi explained to the bemused doctor before excitedly addressing his teammates again. "We've been waiting for Brandt to mess up, to make a mistake like this. He got cocky."

Garcia grinned wickedly, squeezing JJ's hand that was still interlocked with her own. "And now we've got him."

[…]

Ah, so there we are. Ending a chapter on a positive note is a new thing to me. There was A LOT of information in this chapter, a lot of stuff happened. I hope it all made sense.

So anyway, I seriously cannot thank you guys enough for reading this story and going on this adventure with me. Every review I get is more valuable to me than gold. Please stick with me - you're in for a ride, I promise.

Until next time!


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